voice rang out like a herald's defiance.

Sarah Barnard arose, and went forward quickly. "Good-mornin'," she
responded, with nervous eagerness. "Good-mornin', Mis' Thayer. Come
in an' set down, won't you?"

"I 'ain't come to set down," responded Deborah's deep voice.

She moved, a stately high-hipped figure, her severe face almost
concealed in a scooping green barège hood, to the centre of the
floor, and stood there with a pose that might have answered for a
statue of Judgment. She turned her green-hooded head slowly towards
them all in turn. Sarah watched her and waited, her eyes dilated.
Cephas rolled out another pie, calmly. Charlotte knitted fast; her
face was very pale.

"I've come over here," said Deborah Thayer, "to find out what my son
has done."

There was not a sound, except the thud of Cephas's rolling-pin.

"Mr. Barnard!" said Deborah. Cephas did not seem to hear her.

"Mr. Barnard!" she said, again. There was that tone of command in her
voice which only a woman can accomplish. It was full of that maternal
supremacy which awakens the first instinct of obedience in man, and
has more weight than the voice of a general in battle. Cephas did not
turn his head, but he spoke. "What is it ye want?" he said, gruffly.

"I want to know what my son has done, an' I want you to tell me in so